Lunatic
by xooxu
Summary: I'm going crazy. Who isn't in this damn house? Everyone here's a mental case; we're all crazy. Lunatics. I love that word: lunacy. Crazy cycles believed to be caused by the moon. -Mello/Near, cursing, suicidal thoughts, angst in general-


Summary: I'm going crazy. Who isn't in this damn house? Everyone here's a mental case; we're all crazy. Lunatics. I love that word: lunacy. Crazy cycles believed to be caused by the moon.

Warnings: Language, M/M love interest, suicidal thoughts, angst in general

A/N: I promised a friend of mine that I would write a Mello/Near story for her and I could chose what happened, so I ended up with this. Enjoy.

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I'm going crazy. Who isn't in this damn house? Everyone here's a mental case; we're all crazy. Lunatics. I love that word: lunacy. Crazy cycles believed to be caused by the moon. "Lunatic" is originally French, _lunatique_, "insane", which comes from the Latin derivative, _lunaticus_, "moon-struck," and, like I said before, lunacy was believed to be brought on by the moon's cycles.

The moon's cycles. Earth's little pet on a gravitational leash that pulls all of earth's water toward her by way of magic and science, and steals people's sanity—people like me. How else do I describe myself now but a lunatic, victim of the moon's play? Prey to her trickery and treachery?

Love is also another funny little word. It's a fierce word, with so much meaning behind one little syllable. It works wonders with the heart, the mind, and if you believe you have one, the soul. It, however, works along with the moon in her trickery and play, making men into lunatics, into monsters, into something we, ourselves, cannot recognize.

Yes, "we", I included. Who is it that drives me into a rant? Who is it I love? Shit, it scares me to say that and admit that he holds _one more thing_ above my head.

Yes, again, "he". Questions of my preference have never been a concern; homosexuality just came with puberty, another gift-wrapped package along with body odor and embarrassing, out of place erections.

So why is this love so agonizing? I've had a kiss here, a fuck there, none of it is new. So why does this love drive me _insane_? It's because it's _him_! Number one: top of the class, top of _everything_, including my world. He's always been my biggest concern, just … not this way. I let myself care to much, admire too much. He's so pretty, so white, so pure. Like the moon. He's my white moon, driving me mad. My name, not my real name, Mihael Keehl, but the name I adopted, was a lie, meant to make me seem mellow. Calm and serene. It was all a lie. I'm emotional, and loud, and scared all over the place. He just makes it worse. He makes me ... unsure. Unsure that I'll ever beat him, that I'm sane, that I am who I really say I am. Even his name taunts me, drawing me closer, nearer. Once again, I mean his pseudonym, not his real name; I care little for Nate River.

What am I really? A lunatic, obviously, but what else? A slut, a chocoholic, a detective-in-waiting, a sufferer of an inferiority complex? Is that all? Number two. That's what I am. Second best and second rate.

What is he really? An arrogant bastard with a thing for puzzles and the letter L? A smug smile on an otherwise nonchalant face? Number one? Yes, always number one. That's all I can see of him. All I care to see of him. All I see when I look in dark, dark grey eyes: so dull and blasé.

_Lunaticus._ I'm moon-struck, not just in the way that I'm slowly and tortuously losing my mind, but in the way that I can't help but hide away on the roof now, during the night, confiding in my chocolate, and just admire the moon. I'm weak in doing so, running away like that, but at this raw age, it's hard not to be weak. And I hate to admit it, I hate it _so_ much, but I'm scarcely special. I'm very prone to the mood-swings that come with adolescence and teen age stress. Maybe even more so, since that is my nature. Maybe if I had never come to the cursed house, I would have been happy. Maybe? I would have been number one in my mind, never knowing about the boy who makes me feel so low. But I do know, and sometimes, if I'm being honest with myself, I'm somewhat glad I do.

The night is cold due to the oncoming winter. A chilling breeze sweeps past me, and my frustrated sigh makes a fading cloud of vapor. I don't want to be seen, not now, while I'm thinking honestly with myself. I could have gone to my room, but Matt has a key to my lock, and knows that it's best for me not to be alone, despite what I think. He hasn't found where I hide yet, and if he has, he hasn't come up to say anything yet, so I'm still sitting up here alone. I love the land and the house itself, if you stripped it of its meaning, and just thought of it as a house. It's very pretty, especially under the moonlight's glow. It has a calming effect, and that's what I need.

I still can't figure out why they even give the tests anymore. The first two spots are always predetermined, far in advance. They were already determined when he came to this house. I knew what they were going to be when I took the test, but still! Seeing the results _still_ infuriates me to a breaking point. It's pathetic and weak and crazy, but I'm pathetic and weak and a lunatic.

The sound of someone scurrying up the wood trellis surprises me, but I really had known that it would only be a matter of time before Matt found me on the roof. I don't say anything and wait for Matt to address me first. I really hope he won't, and sometimes he doesn't. This was one of those times, I assume, as I hear him sit silently behind me.

We sit in silence for an hour; the only sound was the soft hum of the night (the breeze billowing past, the far off cry of a bird, the echo of croaking frog, a dog's bark off in the distance) and the occasion crack of my breaking chocolate.

"It's really nice."

I want to die at the sound of the voice behind me. It's certainly not Matt's, but its disinterested tone and high alto are familiar. I don't have to look to see who it is. Rage consumes me, and I nearly turn and punch the boy in face. But I don't, and I don't know why.

"What are you doing here?" I ask in a quiet yet angry voice.

"Making sure you don't jump."

I do turn and punch the boy this time. Right on the cheek. What the hell gives him the right to make sure I don't commit suicide? Why did he even think I was considering it? I want to scream profanities at the top of my lungs, or just scream, or punch him harder several more times, or cry. But I do none of these, I just watch him fall back against the slope, his head cracking against the roof tiles.

"Why the _fuck_ do you think I would do that?" I bite, lying in a soft, angry voice. It is a lie. A total lie. The thought of just jumping off the edge of the roof, the four story fall being enough to kill me if I fell on my back or neck, and just ending it was a constant and usual consideration of mine every time I climbed up here. The only reason I never did is because it's a pathetic way to die, and that would give_ him _another thing to hold above me.

He doesn't move, just stays there, lying on the slant. There are a few seconds where I'm afraid I might have hit him too hard; his eyelids still cover his eyes, and a big red mark, destined to bruise, is imprinted on his cheek. Finally his eyelids flicker open, and he looks fleetingly at me, then back up at the dark sky. "I _know_ because I know you, and that is something you would do at something so small. You overact. It's just your nature."

I'm seething with rage at his casual accusation. I'm a damn _observation_! No different than his puzzles. This hurts me, and I know why, but I deny it to myself and pretend I'm clueless. "Why do you care? You've never cared before!"

"I would feel responsible."

I want to punch him again, but I would already be in enough trouble when the attendants saw his face. "Fuck you," I whisper, more to myself than him.

I don't know why I don't move, why I don't leave, but I stay there, just simply turn around and glare off at the stars and the sky until what happened might as well have never happened, and I've calmed down some. Not much, but some. Enough that when he keeps talking, all I do is listen.

"I don't hate you." The tone of his voice kills me.

And eventually, I stand and walk past him, never even looking at him, to the trellis, down into the forth story window that leads to the library where all the lights were out. I don't return to my room, but instead find my self in the first floor great room. No one is awake, no one is looking for me, and no one sees me ripping apart pieces of a white puzzle that I somewhat wish were my lunatic heart.


End file.
